


Farmer Barney's Haunted House

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 06:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A late October visit to a seasonal country fair, complete with 'haunted house' and greasy indigestible fair food proves memorable for the teams of Solo/Kuryakin and Slate/Dancer.





	Farmer Barney's Haunted House

It wasn't often they were directed, ah, REQUESTED, to attend to personal family matters for Alexander Waverly, though it DID happen on occasion. Most of the time, though, it had been in the area of providing security for his wife and other family members. This, this was something quite different, as a grumpy, if slightly embarrassed Alexander Waverly had explained.

"I sincerely hope one or more of you is skilled at apiculture," he grumbled.

"Bee-keeping?" Mark asked uneasily. He didn't dislike bees, at a distance, knew they had an important place in the ecosystem, but certainly had no desire for up close encounters. He still remembered that mad scheme Thrush had come up with, poisonous bees trained to attack on command.

"Exactly, My wife has a bee in her bonnet, and I can't seem to get her to listen to reason."

Mark and the others relaxed, as it seemed that the reference to bees was really more allegorical than literal. 

"She has the grandchildren in an uproar, and frankly my daughter is taking it all much too seriously as well. Gentlemen, Miss Dancer, DO see if you can find that blasted bee and chase it away, will you? It's all I've heard for more than a week now, and I'm finding it extremely distracting! I have more important things to deal with than some hysterical imaginings over some amusement park exhibit!"

None of the four had ever considered Mrs. Waverly to be one for hysteria, had always found her amazingly level-headed, but didn't feel like it was their place to contradict their superior out loud and to his face. April, though, was wondering if MR. Waverly was spending his nights in their spare bedroom, with an attitude like that. He certainly would be if SHE were Mrs. Waverly. And if Cousin Caeide . . . Well, Haven would probably be needing a new tea kettle after she'd finished bashing it across the offender's head.

Mrs. Waverly, Miriam Walker Waverly, greeted them eagerly, sat them down to a pot of tea and cookies, and tried to explain about that 'blasted bee', though she was obviously taking a severe exception to her husband terming it that.

"It was supposed to be a treat, you see; the grandchildren are every bit as fond of those 'Haunted Houses' that get set up this time of year as our own children were. So I thought it would be a pleasant outing for us. The children had been at a three-day camp in the neighboring state. I had volunteered to pick them up on my way down for a little visit to save my daughter from having to cut her alumni planning meeting short to go get them. I'd seen the advertisement on the bulletin board at a rest stop, and frankly it had reminded me of some of the country fairs we'd gone to in our early days, with the addition of the haunted house, which I knew the children would love. I thought it would make for a pleasant break in a long car trip.

"It was in a farmer's field that had been let for the occasion, and I felt every bit as excited as the children when we first saw all the flags flying and heard the music and smelled all that lovely greasy indigestible food that fairs are known for."

April and Napoleon noted, with some amusement, the sudden added interest in their partners at the mention of food. 

"It was a surprisingly small fair, smaller than the advertisement had led me to believe, but the haunted house looked impressive. It looked so SOLID, if you know what I mean; most of those traveling ones are really just stuck together so they can be dismantled and moved on to the next location or stored away for the season. Though I suppose some of them make their way to what I believe the circuses call 'winter quarters' or a small attraction open for much more of the year than just the Halloween season. 

"We looked at all the craft and oddments booths, played some of the games, ate cotton candy and corn dogs and pretzels - you know, the usual things one does at that sort of place. I'd saved the haunted house for the last. Certainly, if we'd done it earlier, we'd have been back on the road much faster. 

"It was ghastly, in all respects. After finally finding our way out, actually fighting our way out, none of us wanted to stay any longer in the vicinity - the children were white as ghosts themselves, and I was shaking all over. Part of that was reaction to what we'd seen, what had happened inside, but I'll admit a goodly part was pure anger at anyone setting up such a horrific experience! Oh, if there had been any warnings posted, I might have been more accepting, though I certainly would have hesitated to take the children through, but there WEREN'T! And it was far more ghastly than what I've ever seen staged before!"

She hesitated, drew a deep breath, "but the real problem is, you see, I am not convinced it was all staged. That's the issue, what I can't make Alexander truly realize. It was not just REALISTIC, I truly believe a good part of it WAS real! There was an overpowering smell of blood around the bodies. That and the other smells that accompany violent death. I saw, smelled enough of that in the war, you know. And you know as well as I do, a dummy, no matter how well done, just does NOT get mistaken for a dead body, not up close, not once you've seen enough of the real thing. It's something you don't forget, don't ever mistake for anything other than what it is. 

"And the damage done? The wounds, the disfigurement of the bodies? I don't believe it was faked either, though I believe it had to have been perpetrated by someone, perhaps someTHING, not quite sane, at least as you and I would envision matters. I certainly would never have pulled out my pocket pistol, safety off, for a faked up setting, and when I DID fire, when those things tried to grab the children, my bullets DID strike home. Even if they didn't kill, they gave us enough breathing room to make our escape.

"I drove straight back to town, put the matter to the Sheriff's Department. THEY made out they didn't even know about a fair or a haunted house anywhere around there. And you'd think there would have had to be permits and such, wouldn't you? 

"They promised to investigate, but I truly think they wrote me off as a hysterical or delusional woman. I pressed them, insisted they needed to shut the place down, get everyone out and KEEP anyone else away, start a complete investigatiion. I only hope they did so, but I am sorely afraid they didn't do anything at all. 

"I called yesterday, and they assured me everything was under control, the whole enterprise is off and gone, but I called that little store where I'd seen the advertisement, and it's back up!

"Alexander is refusing to take me seriously, telling me we all ate a bad corn dog or had too much cotton candy, let our imaginations run away with us, or something of that nature, but I'm not some flighty imaginative little girl! I know when something's not right. And, April, gentlemen, that place is VERY not right! Indeed, there is something very, very wrong about Farmer Barney's Haunted House!!" 

***  
"Well, whoever is running the operation isn't making themselves too available," April said with some puzzlement. "Usually there'd be a center of operations somewhere, but even the men working the booths don't seem to know where the 'Boss' would be."

"Well, the carny over at the popcorn stand says we should try that back area, along the picket fence around the Haunted House exhibit. The owner is someone called 'Farmer Barney', just that, though he doesn't know if that's a first or last name. Bill, the carney, says the man talks like he's out of an old novel, very 'toffish'," Mark interjected, "dresses like it too, not much what you'd expect from someone labeling himself 'Farmer'. Bill was a bit of a surprise, too, I must admit. It seems a bit unusual to find someone with a Liverpool accent in these surrounds, but carnies travel where the work is, I suppose."

"Illya, will you put that thing down??! We need to go find this 'Farmer Barney' and I think you'd look a lot more professional without a corn dog in your hand!" Napoleon said in some exasperation, eyeing his partner and the deep fried object he was munching his way through. Since they'd arrived and started their wanderings, Napoleon had watched his partner devour a corn dog, a cone of pink cotton candy, a giant pretzel glazed with salt crystals, two huge funnel cakes drizzled with powdered sugar, and now, a second corn dog. 

He got an aloof look in return. "You might elect to go hungry because there are no five star restaurants included here; I do not. I have not experienced American 'fair food' before, and I might never get the opportunity again. And besides, I have only two more bites," taking those bites quickly and looking around for a trash barrel in which to dispose of the sharp wooden stick. Failing to find any, he shrugged and tucked it into his inside jacket pocket, much to Napoleon's expressed disgust. 

"Remind me on the way back, there is a booth that is selling fried cheese curds, as well as fried pickles; I would like to try both of those," Illya told April, getting her overly-solemn assurances that she would most certainly remind him not to miss those treats.

"Well, Napoleon. Are we going to search out this Farmer Barney or not?" Illya asked, getting a very off-putting look from his partner. Napoleon was a few steps ahead and didn't see the sly wink the Russian handed off to a rather startled Mark Slate.

It turns out Farmer Barney wasn't all that hard to find, once you reached the exterior of the fence surrounding the Haunted House that Miriam Walker Waverly had found so disturbing. They were greeted with a bland smile, an extended hand, and a laughing explanation by the thin, rather distinguished looking man in the dark suit.

"My name is Barnabus Polshinsky, and I used to be what was once called a 'gentleman farmer'. Having spent far too many years of hearing people come up with all sorts of unpleasant derivations of my name, I decided 'Farmer' provided much less ammunition for amusement. 'Farmer Barney' for when I am orchestrating this seasonal event. I'm sure you understand, Mr. Solo. Just what parents are thinking sometimes, I'm sure I don't know," obviously assuming Napoleon Solo was just as disconcerted by HIS name as he was. That may or may not have been true; if so, Napoleon hadn't complained about it to his fellow agents anyway.

Yes, that was certainly an upperclass manner of speaking, with traces of Old European under the surface, just as they'd been told.

"The Haunted House? Oh, just a bit of amusement, I assure you. Nothing TOO dire; wouldn't want to frighten the kiddies into losing their brekkies, now would we? Their parents would kick up a fuss, and then there's the clean-up, of course."

Napoleon smiled and agreed. "But we would like to take a walk through. My friends have never been through a haunted house before. We'd hate to leave without them getting the full country fair experience."

"Well, it's shut down for now - the workers are taking their dinner break before the evening shift, and that means all the fun parts won't be up and running. And I doubt you'll much enjoy going through with all the youngsters screaming and laughing and kicking up their heels. All those sticky fingers, in the literal sense, I mean. But I DO let curious grownups get their fair look without all the tagalongs, if any are interested. Oh, the same show, the same tricks, nothing different, just more discerning company, more discussion of how the tricks are worked, how you win the games, less screaming and infantile jollification and such. Why, I'd be glad to take you on a tour if you like? Say 9:30? The last of the kiddies are finished by then, and you could have the whole place to yourselves."

Napoleon quickly agreed, and they departed to get Illya his fried cheese curds and pickles, although over the senior partner's seemingly-appalled objections.

As they stood waiting for Illya to finish his small box of fried pickles, April remarked, "I'm not sure we will learn very much with a 'personalized tour', Napoleon, not if there is something odd going on. Wouldn't he be reluctant to let us see any of that, be sure to steer us away?"

"Probably, but it's a good start. The private tour tonight before they close down for the evening, let us get a feel for the layout. Then, perhaps a little MORE private, self-guided tour a few hours later, when all is quiet?"

"Alright then, we've another couple of hours to spare. I'm hungry. Who's up for dinner?" Mark asked, as April and Napoleon looked at him with astonishment. 

While he hadn't kept pace with Illya, certainly, there was no way April's partner should have been able to claim hunger - she'd been keeping track of his calorie consumption, and it was rather astounding. She'd contented herself with the occasional nibble of whatever he was eating, though bypassing much of it as being a certain digestive upset in the making.

"I am," Illya replied, getting a grin of approval from Mark, and sounds of exasperation from the other two agents. "Perhaps the fried turkey legs would be good to begin with, Mark, with the sausages and kraut on a bun afterwards? With the hot peppers? Or maybe the sausages with chili? And another funnel cake, perhaps with the honey coating this time, for dessert? Or, I believe I saw one booth that claimed they had vanilla ice cream to spoon over the top, and perhaps whipped cream?"

Mark and Illya led the way back to the food stands, April and Napoleon following after exchanging a sincerely-meant shudder.

Napoleon whispered, "are YOU hungry, April? I mean, I wouldn't mind a club sandwich, but I haven't seen much of anything that isn't deep fried, have you?"

She suppressed a giggle. "I saw something that was called a 'Monte Cristo sandwich'; I think that might be the closest thing to a club sandwich you'll find here. According to the sign, it is a ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough bread. Of course, it is deep fried as well. I think the sign offered to pour maple syrup on top, or sprinkle it with powdered sugar for a slight additional charge," enjoying his look of sheer horror. 

"Come along, Napoleon, I'm sure we will find you something, and I'm equally sure I can get our partners not to tell anyone back at the office," she teased the man who was so sensitive about his sophisticated reputation. As for her, she thought that Monte Cristo sandwich sounded quite promising, if without the syrup or powdered sugar.

9:30 rolled around, and the four were back at the entrance to the Haunted House. It was surprisingly quiet; they'd expected the last group to be exiting, but apparently they were already out and gone, since only Farmer Barney was within sight. In fact, the entire compound seemed to have developed a slightly desolate feel to it, and the voices they could hear seemed to be very far in the distance, disappearing entirely by the time they reached the door of the Haunted House.

"You see, all quite tame. A few characters that pop out of the walls or drop down from the ceiling when you trip a lever in the floor or the frame when you pass through a doorway. But they just appear, poof by, then are gone. There are a few of the obligatory 'dead bodies', of course. Look, there's one now," pointing to an obviously fake mannequin propped against the wall, scarlet splotches staining its ragged clothes. "There's another," as a hanging man appeared as they rounded a corner.

Mark and April exchanged glances; so far there was nothing to cause alarm, but April would have bet her next month's salary that what Mrs. Waverly and the grandchildren had experienced had been something quite different. The woman had been a field agent during the war; while that had been some time ago, surely that was not an undertaking for someone with shaky nerves, and she had never seen any indications of such in their superior's wife.

Napoleon spoke up. "You said something about tricks, games?"

Farmer Barney beamed. "I'm so glad you brought that up! Yes, there's a row of viewing slots up ahead where you can see tableau of horrific characters and such. The trick is, the slots are rigged on a timer; every so many clicks and the slot shoots out a stream of water, or a rope of sticky string, or some such thing. And there's a suspended rope and board walkway from one doorway to one on the opposite side, the floor having 'mysteriously vanished'. While it's quite safe, of course, it doesn't FEEL that way, swaying this way and that, and the boards shifting under your feet. The sides are made quite tall, with a near invisible netting enclosing the whole, so no one could lose their balance and slip through, even if they tried. Safety first, I always say.

"And there ARE games, in one of the rooms ahead! Slot machines, for one, with little creepy-crawly rubber prizes if you get a high enough score. Shooting games, where you can have your friends stick their heads through the holes in the dressed-up figures at the other side - gunfighters, dancehall girls, Victorian gentlemen, all sorts. The guns shoot these little rubber suction-cup thinggies. Actually, no one ever wins at that one, though I beg you not to tell a soul. Well, we make sure the guns don't have enough umphh for the little darts to actually REACH the target; have to avoid even the slightest chance of an injury, you know."

The rest was much the same - fake spider webs dangling from the ceilings, rubber 'barbed wire' cages that sprang up and blocked your way. There wasn't one thing that disputed the proprietor's smiling assurances that it was all quite harmless, nothing even approaching dire.

They thanked him at the end of the tour, said their goodnights and headed back to their car. Once inside, Napoleon turned to look at the others. 

"Tonight. Or rather in the morning. I think about one o'clock should do. That would give us plenty of time before we have to get out to avoid any early-to-work types."

"Do we head back to town, try to get a couple hours of sleep?" Mark asked, only to get a slow, "no, I think we should stick fairly close, both to here and to each other, just in case. One of us should stay alert; the others can nap if they can. I'll take first watch; Illya, I'll shake you in an hour?"

One o'clock was a particularly creepy time to be 'creeping' around in a deserted fairgrounds, much less entering a Haunted House that just might be more than it appeared to the casual observer. They each put on a brave face, but secretly wondered if their fellow agents were as apprehensive about this little venture as they were.

They passed along the same route as they'd taken before, and in the first two rooms, there was nothing any different than what they'd seen before during their tour. It was only in the wandering hallway from that second room to the third that the unexpected occurred. A swooping figure hurtled from the ceiling, causing them to duck wildly. It had been moving too quickly for a ready identification, but it had looked somewhat like a cross between a vulture and a bat!

"Blast!" Mark exclaimed, grabbing his upper shoulder. "That thing bit me!" 

A close examination by shielded flashlight showed there were indeed puncture wounds, deep enough to provide a copious flow of blood, along with the set of three deep scratches along the side of his neck. April quickly bound the wounds, promising herself her partner would be getting a tetanus shot as soon as they got back to town. She didn't bother mentioning that out loud; {"sufficient unto the time is the arguing thereof,"} she assured herself.

The next surprise was that the 'dead bodies' didn't look quite so fake anymore. In fact, they looked quite real, and Mrs. Waverly had been right about the stench. They were no strangers to sudden, violent death, and that smell was far too familiar to them. Illya made his way over the railing and gap, ignoring Napoleon's urging for caution, and knelt down, making a closer examination. 

He hadn't said anything til he returned, then in his customary concise manner informed them, "a young woman, perhaps seventeen or so. Her throat's been torn out, and her abdomen slashed open. I would say she died within the past three days from the amount of insect intrusion."

Well, that settled that point, though as if trying to emphasize the point, the next three bodies left no doubt in anyone's mind. A man, maybe in his late twenties, two children both not yet in their teens.

Around the next bend was the game room with the various slot machines and shooting games. Illya examined them with a great deal of interest, even going so far as to prying open the receptacle that held the 'prizes'. His voice had a very odd note in it as he slammed the cover back in place quickly. 

"Scorpions and various others, all of a quite deadly sort."

Napoleon and Mark had been examining the shooting game, picking up the various guns, checking their weight and the accuracy of their sights. The rubber-tipped darts looked harmless enough. 

"Well, at least these are what he described," Napoleon said.

Mark frowned, "don't know about that; have an odd feel to them. Oh, not so much the guns, but the darts." Well, Mark WAS the darts player, not Napoleon. 

A thorough examination showed a deadly steel spike, maybe three inches long, encased in the rubber. "Bet those would leave a mark," he said, deadpan. Turning he fired at the figure opposite him, but the dart fell harmlessly to the floor about a foot away from the target. 

April stood back and studied the scene, thought carefully. 

"Remember what he said, about some of the slots working on rotation. Perhaps there's some gimmick to the shooting game too.

She went back of the character, studied it from that angle, studied the floor and the wall behind. "I wonder if having a person standing behind makes all the difference. We should try that."

She got a variety of protests, but waved them aside. "I don't intend to make myself a target, I promise. But perhaps stacking three or four of the plywood cutouts right behind this one might present the same illusion."

So they did, and this time when Mark pulled that trigger, the gun retorted with a much harder force, and that rubber dart, with its enclosed steel spike plunged through the heart of the gunslinger facing him. April moved in to study the effect. 

"Well, accounting for the depth of the plywood and the length of the spike, I'd say that would probably finish most people off; certainly it would a child," noting the small stepstools conveniently provided so the smaller tots could enjoy 'being' one of those characters.

The fake spider webs now had a sticky, gelatinous quality they hadn't before; of course, they hadn't come with scurrying brown recluse spiders before either, although they certainly did now.

Still, they'd avoided most damage, other than to Mark's shoulder and neck, at least so far.

That changed when they were passing through a narrow opening. Napoleon, followed by April, then Mark, had made it safely through. But then a net made of barbed wire - NOT of the rubber sort - threw itself at the opening, catching Illya in its spiky grip. It had taken all their efforts, each of them gathering their own dripping wounds, to free the Russian, and his gashes were such that some would clearly require stitches. 

"I suppose that is operated on a trip-switch as well," Napoleon had snarled, the sight of his partner dripping blood never having been one of his favorites.

"Probably. Napoleon, we have to be close to the end, don't we? Illya needs stitching, and Mark does too, and I DO hope the local physician has a supply of tetanus vaccine on hand. I'm thinking we ALL should avail ourselves," April noted, trying to ignore the burning and aching from those rips in her own flesh from the barbed wire.

"Yes, I think there's only that room with no floor to get past. And I really don't like the idea of that, not after everything else."

"Maybe we should try going down, across, then up again?" Mark said. "That suspended walkway is not something I'm all that eager to try, not this time."

Napoleon nodded, "yes, I agree. But I wonder if that's just a little too obvious. Maybe that's the intention, to get us down below just to avoid the walkway. I wonder what's down there; it was too dark to get a good look before."

They stood at the doorway, shining their lights down below. "Don't look like anything much, just some old furniture and such," Mark said, but with a great deal of doubt in his voice.

"Perhaps a compromise? We split forces. One goes across, slowly, carefully. One heads down below, just as carefully. And two remain here, ready to dash to the rescue if needed," April offered, and it was a unanimous decision.

Mark headed down below. Halfway across the floor, he whispered loudly, "looks alright so far. What about with you, Illya?"

Illya had elected to try the walkway and was halfway across. "Same here, not even the swaying has increased over what we experienced before." He took another step, then another, then felt the walkway start to move much more violently under his feet. "It would appear I spoke too soon," he commented, "and it would appear some of those ropes up ahead are not ropes either." He really wasn't all that fond of snakes, either the small ones or the large, and these really were rather large.

Down below, Mark didn't hear him. Well, being suddenly flat on your back with a slavering gargoyle sort of creature sitting on your chest, dripping burning saliva down on you from simply enormous fangs rather put you out of the listening mood. 

April cried out in warning, Napoleon swung down the handholds on the wall as if they were a ladder, picked up the most handy piece of furniture and bashed the creature in the head. It disappeared into the darkness with a screech that threatened to split their eardrums.

That was echoed by a cry from Illya as the boards disappeared from under his feet and he fell, saved from the long trip to the floor below only by his snatching at the rope supports. Thankfully, one of those WITHOUT scales and fangs.

They were all too far away to help when that second creature, this one looking like nothing so much as a combination between a vulture and a gaunt and quite naked woman, flung herself out of nowhere, grasping April in her claws and trying to make away with her. 

Between April's struggles and the bullets Napoleon presented the creature with, her efforts were in vain. Unfortunately, she let go just as she'd reached the peak of the roof, letting April fall when the last bullet struck home.

April twisted and turned, tried frantically to spot something, anything to break her fall. Illya spun the rope he was clinging to, managed to grasp her wrist long enough to at least slow her momentum, but not enough to prevent her hard descent to the floor below.

Panting, Illya made his way down the dangling ropes, joining the other three below. "Is she . . ."

Mark snarled, checking his unconscious partner for broken bones. 

"She's alive, no thanks to that twister! Let's get the hell out of here, mates."

They carefully brought April up that opposite wall, and out into the cool night air. A quick retreat to their car, where Illya insisted they delay long enough for him to be sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for them, then an even quicker trip to town, the authorities, the resident doctor. And, of course, a reporting in to Mr. Waverly that they would very much appreciate backup, a great deal of it, of a very specific nature and as quickly as possible. 

If the young woman Waverly motioned over to take down their requirements looked at the list with great confusion after they ended their transmission, it was only to be expected. However, Napoleon Solo was a senior agent, and Mr. Waverly was giving her the nod, so she got busy trying to get all in place as quickly as possible.

They went back in the morning, the three men, with help, to gather the bodies, those both intact and not-so-much-so. No one was much looking forward to that. April, waiting in that hospital bed, was torn between wanting to be with them to provide backup and support, and guiltily relieved at not having to look at any of that again.

They were also there to capture any loose creatures, well, some associates anyway, though Mark firmly objecting to Napoleon's glib description as 'assorted livestock' on the basis of livestock indicating farm animals and none of those had seemed to qualify. 

"At least, none that I know of back in England include pythons, and giant spiders, and bats and vultures in their barns and fields. Not to mention I don't have a clue where one could find those things that looked like nothing so much as a harpy with a bad case of the mange. And don't let us forget the rest of the jolly assortment!" giving a realistic, no, a very real shudder at remembering some of those. 

Well, he'd been caught flat on his back staring into the dripping fangs of one of those, and would be forever grateful for Napoleon for smashing whatever the hell it was in the head and knocking it away from him. He touched his fingers carefully to the burns left by whatever was in the creature's saliva; even after treatment, they were still eye-wateringly sore, and added to the pain from the teeth and claws for his first dance partner. He shuddered once again, thinking what could have happened if that burning substance had managed to hit his eyes.

And finally, they were all there, the three agents and the others summoned to dismantle the place, down to the last nail, board and piece of barbed wire.

Illya had suggested bringing salt to spread over the entire field, but he'd been overruled, at least temporarily, the city officials claiming a heavy winter being forecast where they'd be needing all the salt they had in their warehouse, plus the legal and financial liability for putting that field out of commission for who knows how long. Napoleon wasn't sure that was true, necessarily; he had the feeling the men just looked at these outsiders as part of the lunatic fringe and were trying to get rid of them without incident. 

(He wouldn't be totally wrong; the city officials DID want them gone, with as little fuss as possible. After all, the sooner those city boys left, the sooner their tenant could get things set back up again. A nice piece of change coming into the city bank account every fifty years or so was right handy; had allowed for the new library and the clinic and a few other nice little additions to their community. And it wasn't like Farmer Barney took anyone they knew; it was always outsiders. Well, except for some odd pieces of livestock now and again, and he paid generously for those. No, they didn't need some overly-squeamish city folks messing things up for everyone.)

Jack Matthews, project coodinator at UNCLE, looked around, then got a severe frown on his face. 

"Napoleon old lad, it's the end of October, not April 1st! Do you know what it cost to get this dog and pony show on the road?" glancing around at the trucks and cages and men with catching poles and tranquilizer guns and nets standing around waiting for instructions, ambulances with a supply of body bags, carpenters with pry bars, two large dump trucks and much else.

"I don't know how you intend to explain this to Waverly, but it had better be damned good or you're going to have your pay docked til AFTER you retire!"

Napoleon Solo took another good look over the empty park. No 'Farmer Barney's Haunted House'. No tall stone gargoyles at each side of the fenced courtyard. Actually, no courtyard at all, just an empty field of tall knee-high grass that looked like no one had stepped foot in it for at least a couple of years.

"It was here, Jack, I swear it was. One of the most solid, most real slices of hell I've come across recently," Napoleon told his sometimes-associate. He started to move forward and stumbled over something hidden by the tall grass. 

"Napoleon? What have you found?" Illya asked, seeing the look on his partner's face. He moved forward to look at the area where Napoleon had stopped. A few words in Russian tumbled from him, and he moved a few steps to the left. 

"Mark, fan out to the right," he said in a very odd voice. "Be careful where you step."

"What are you guys . . ." Jack Matthews started to ask as he approached where a grim faced Solo was staring down at the withered remains of a corpse, wrapped in barbed wire.

"Shit! That can't be real!" Matthews exclaimed, waving frantically for the ambulance crew to come running.

But it was. It and all the others laid out in a wide circle in the tall grass. Sometimes intact, just as often not. Men, women, children of various ages, interspersed with a few domestic and farm animals - cats, dogs, calves and goats, even what appeared to be the remains of a pony.

And in the center, in the middle of a large stone, held down by a smaller stone, there was a note.

"So terribly sorry for the mess, but I truly WAS dreadfully hungry! Well, when meal time only comes around once every fifty years, you DO tend to get that way. Still, it's another full week before my visiting pass runs out, so I'm off to get another little snack before I go back to sleep again. Toodles." 

Illya handed the note to Mark, who swallowed hard, and looked at the others with a shaken expression. "It's signed, Farmer Barney."

Fall, then Winter, then Spring passed, and Summer was now at an end, the wardrobe at UNCLE Headquarters New York was switching from little summer dresses to ensembles both heavier and more concealing, much to Napoleon's disappointment. It was at times like these he really wished the Old Man would move the Eastern Headquarters to Miami.

He was starting to pick up bits of talk here and there of people wondering about just what April Dancer might include with her Halloween friviolities THIS year. Her Halloween party was one of those events that had its good points and sometimes a few not so good. 

Oh, April was an expert giver of parties, no doubt about that. However, there was just something problematic about Halloween, the more so the more Halloweens he experienced. That wasn't April's fault, of course, but sometimes he agreed with Illya that maybe the young woman should switch to something less evocative, "perhaps Groundhog Day?"

Somehow, though, this year April's mind seemed elsewhere, and one morning late in September he and Illya discovered what that was. It seems her partner had a curious streak just as wide as Illya's, and it had led him a fine chase on his latest self-indulgence.

It wasn't easy to read, and Napoleon had to squint when Mark handed over the sheets of paper. The article was so old that by the time it was put on film for the archives it had already been yellowed and tattered.

"Couldn't get it out of my mind, you see," Mark admitted. "Know my way around computers more than a little, and started thinking about how they could help find out more about Farmer Barney and his Haunted House. Every fifty years, he said. I wasn't expecting to find a clipping or anything like that, but thought maybe I'd find some mention."

"He's searched in almost all his off-time," April said ruefully, knowing just how many other activities had been foregone in that searching. She'd had to find other companions for an art exhibit, two off-Broadway shows, and a host of other things ever since that experience nearly a year ago.

Mark gave a sheepish grin and shrug; well, he did have a tendency to be a little over-focused sometimes when something caught his attention.

Illya reached in to read over Napoleon's shoulder. "Where did you get this, Mark? From what archive?"

"A group that researches accounts of the more morbid events in this country. Cannibalism, human sacrifice, ghosts who suck the essence out of you, vampirism, ghouls, human - well, more or less - monsters who prey on the unwary, actual monsters that lurk in the shadows looking for their next meal; you name it, if it's in that line, they have an interest. They have a quarterly magazine, even. They call it 'Hauntings' but the aficiandos who read this stuff call it 'Bone Appetite'. Gruesome sense of humor, but you have to see their point. I thought I might be able to pick up a trace of this 'Farmer Barney' there, and I think I have."

Napoleon began reading.

"Ahem. Here goes."

*'A local gentleman farmer by the name of Barney Polshinsky, who had come to be known as 'Barney Gentry' for his gentrified beginnings and rarified way of speaking, or 'Farmer Barney' for his occupation, has been accused of luring individuals, mostly children and their parents, to his rear field by the most cunning of means. He transpired to cut a maze into his field of tall grass, and built a house in the center. He promised entry to that house to any who could follow the maze to its successful ending. The house itself was supposedly full of any number of amusing items and tricks and games, many of which promised prizes to those who guessed their secrets. 

'He actively discouraged any of the local inhabitants from participating in his maze contest, explaining it was a business operation for him and he disliked taking the hard-earned money from his neighbors. Instead, he offered them other entertainment in the way of pumpkin hunts and conker tossings and the like, at no charge, but simply out of neighborly spirit. 

'As for those not his neighbors, he has been said to place advertisements in the newspapers of towns within a reasonable traveling distance to entice the curious strangers. In addition to the maze, the advertisement promised food and drink and additional enticements, all for a modest price.

'The nefarious nature of Farmer Barney's activities came to light when it was found he was running a steady trade in horses, carts and carriages in Westhampton. When one individual came to inquire as to where he might get a second carriage to match the first, that worthy was astonished to find upon inquiry in the town that the man who sold him his goods was a simple farmer, not the conveyance merchant he had purported to be. The city authorities became curious, and it was discovered that Farmer Barner was disposing of a goodly number of such things, and further search determined that those goods had belonged to individuals who had mysteriously vanished from their homes and shops, never to return.

'A simple questioning of the farmer aroused further suspicions, and a thorough search brought to light a most horrific cache of bones and clothing and personal belongings, many being traced back to the missing individuals. Neighbors and family of some of those missing reported those individuals having spoken of 'an outing in the country' or 'a wonderful game the children want to play', shortly before their disappearance.

'Farmer Barney was taken into custody and was awaiting trial for the crime of multiples murders, along with theft and mismanagement of property. While the verdict was thought a foregone conclusion, the matter never came to trial. Farmer Barney disappeared from his cell without a trace, except for the pungent scent of sulpher and a few words scrawled on the walls of his cell. Those words read, "Keep dinner warm for me. I'll be back in fifty years or so, per the bargain.

'Journals found in Farmer Gentry's house appear to stretch back far longer than possible. The noted doctors from the city who were called in to examine them declared Farmer Gentry was obviously quite insane, for in those journals he claimed to have been several hundred years old, having made an agreement with an unnamed Dark Man smelling of sulfer - life of indulgence beyond imagining in return for certain despicable acts of violence and degradation. According to the journals, each act committed allowed him a certain period of time in a pleasure palace of loathsome delights, to a limit of fifty years. At the end of each such fifty year span, he would be returned to once again begin his talleying in order to once again gain his reward. 

'Those journals were given into the hands of the doctor in charge, at his request, that he might study them more closely. When attempting to interview the good doctor for a follow-up to this story, it was found he had closed his practice and his residence, and had left with no report of his destination. The journals disappeared with him. His assistant bemoaned the sudden loss of his employment, as well as the persistent smell of sulpher that permeated the offices for a goodly deal of time after.*

"Interesting. I wonder . . ."

"Yes, if you were going to ask if there were other accounts. Three that I was able to find, though those were more in the way of entries in various books on paranormal and supernatural encounters. And yes, the dates are on a fifty year sequence, it would appear; though if he DID reappear like clockwork, then I'm missing at least two accounts."

Mark handed over another sheaf of papers, Napoleon skimming but not bothering to read them out loud. He carefully shuffled the sheets of paper back into a neat stack. 

"Have you shown these to Mr. Waverly yet?"

"No, I wasn't quite sure whether I should, though April is coming down firmly on the 'yes' side of the question."

"Really, April?" Napoleon asked, not sure HE would want to be the one to deliver these to their superior.

"Well, of course. I really didn't like the way he was doubting Mrs. Waverly's opinion, her instincts, you know; anything that might make him reconsider doing that again, I think would be most worthwhile. And there needs to be a record somewhere so that someone might be on guard in the future."

Napoleon smiled slowly, "then you wouldn't object to being the one to present these to him." {"As long as it's not ME!"}

April hesitated, then firmed her lips. "Not in the least, Napoleon. Mark, Illya, will YOU like to accompany me?"

"Not really," Mark admitted, with Illya looking exceedingly glum at the notion.

"Well, alright. Although I was going to offer a special treat in return for the support. It seems there's this little fair over in Brooking Hallows this weekend. No haunted houses, I promise you, but lots of greasy indigestible fair food. My treat, of course."

"Now, can't let you brave the Old Man all by yourself, can I, luv?" Mark responded with a wide grin of anticipation.

"Indeed, April. We would not think of it!" Illya chimed in, striving to keep a straight face.

Napoleon watched them leave, shaking his head. "Fair food - fried pickles, corn dogs, cotton candy." He snorted in derision, then hesitated. "Of course, they just might have those Monte Cristo sandwiches, and I didn't get the chance to try one of those funnel cakes with ice cream on top . . . Hey, wait for me. He'll take it better with a senior agent backing you up, you know!"


End file.
